Scars cut into the topology of space.
In your panorama called life—
And your directions to the past,
And the future beneath your feet,
Beneath your gaze toward the horizon.
What your eyes can’t see,
And your hands—
Your touch, unable to reach.
Your simple call for desire,
In the wetness of your clothes’ shell.
You call for distance.
You call for nearness.
Endless.
And yet,
Another train starts somewhere.